


Creature of Habit

by BeyondtheKilljoy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Season/Series 05 Spoilers, serial killer!stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 10:46:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5372498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeyondtheKilljoy/pseuds/BeyondtheKilljoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life was sick. So was Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Creature of Habit

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So this is my first killer fic. I didn't really expand upon Peter's and Stiles' relationship but depending on how this piece is received, I might write a sequel.

It wasn’t always about the closeness. It wasn’t always about the mixed air between their parted lips, the skin caught between nails, the push and pull on the bed. Sometimes it was about distance, how Stiles felt as empty as the bed when Peter was gone.

And, at some heavenly points, it was all about the blood between them. The sound of bones cracking and flesh breaking. Stiles knew that the breath of life in their relationship was built entirely on the last breath of others. It was a private piece for each that somehow linked them together. Once upon a time, it would unsettle him. The feeling would crawl under his skin, chanting about the indecency of it all. However, that was a long time ago.

The first night would always be in Stiles’ memory, as clear as the day his mother died. He remembered the panic, the flight-or-flight instinct, the way that the wrench just smashed into Theo’s skull. The sickening cavern it made on his face. The warmth of the blood quickly fading with the night against Stiles’ skin. The sheer breathlessness of it all. Stiles would have left Theo there, would have driven home, would have lied in bed for the rest of his life at awe of the feeling, if it hadn’t been for Peter.

He was always there, lurking in the shadows, on the edge of the pack. And there he was, stepping out into the lot, moving quickly towards a shell-shocked Stiles and Theo’s body. Stiles didn’t recognize himself, but saw this stranger reflecting in Peter’s eyes. Saw his humor, himself, in the curve of Peter’s smirk.

“He would probably die here, you know, or he could survive. Werewolves and the human ways to die are always in a fickle dance.” Stiles knew what he meant, not that night, but soon after about the fickle dance. Each side was struggling to take the lead, stepping on their partner’s feet too often. Werewolves wanted to be better than humans, even to death, but death was respecter of no creature.

If Stiles was in his mind that night, he might have realized Peter was lying to him. Even a wolf couldn’t survive that type of trauma. Thinking back on it, Stiles wondered often if that realization would have made any difference that night to what happened.

Stiles just stared at him then, though. What would he say? There was no justification for this, besides self-defense, but Stiles couldn’t find it in himself to force out the truth: that he had to take Theo’s life.

Peter stepped slightly back, because Theo’s blood was starting to pool close to his feet. Stiles thought somewhere far in the recesses in his mind that Peter was so pretentious as not to let a little blood touch him. “Why not make sure?”

His head moved to look at Theo’s pale face, distorted by the indent in it. Head wounds always bleed a lot, right? Stiles gazed back up to Peter, unable to get his mouth to open. What did Peter want with him? Stiles wasn’t even in a place, so detached from the world, the feeling of awe leaving him as an shell with a person too small to take everything up again, to refuse whatever Peter asked.

“If Theo lives and tells Scott, it will be over for you. After the episode with the nogitsune, you won’t be trusted again. Besides, this is a way to make sure he never finds out and gives you that moment again. You want the thrill again.” Peter urged gently. “Hit him again.”

And Stiles did hit him again. And again. And again.  
\--  
Afterwards, after the body was gone, Peter took Stiles to his apartment. He pulled Stiles to the bathroom, put him in the shower. It was while watching the blood swirl down the drain that Stiles came back to himself.

“I killed him.” Stiles said softly. It didn’t matter how loud the shower was, Peter was right behind the curtain and would hear him.

“Yes.” Peter called sharply through the steam.

“You told me to kill him.”

Peter didn’t respond, not that Stiles heard. His brain was starting to kick back into gear, playing back the situation over a thousand times. The strange part was that the deed didn’t send him to panic. It was just a fact. His mother was dead. His father was the sheriff. His best friend was a werewolf.

He had killed someone.

Stiles slowly turned the handle until the shower shut off, the only sound being his breath and the drip of the water left on the shower head. A hand appeared through the curtain, holding up a white towel. The color looked foreign in his hands, just as stark as the red was for the first few moments.

When Stiles stepped out of the shower, the towel wrapped firmly around his waist, Peter stood near the door. His eyes cut into Stiles in a way that heated his blood. “Just because I told you to end that wolf doesn’t mean you had to listen, sweetheart. We both know you did it because you wanted to.” He licked his lips. “We are the same, Stiles. Creatures driven by need and want and bloodlust.”  
\--  
The second time Stiles killed, it was a Wendigo. It was in front of Scott. To save Scott actually, as he had foolishly pursued a pack that was much larger than he realized. It was nearly as breathtaking as before, no warmth or splash of color beneath his skin. All he had to remember it was the dull thud of her against the sidewalk below and the way her blood could be seen from the top of the hospital. There was still a buzz of power vibrating in his bones.

Scott tried his best to apologize to Stiles, that Stiles had to do that. Stiles wanted to laugh hollowly, say that it was no problem. He didn’t want to lie. In the end, when Scott had left Stiles at the door of his Jeep, Stiles did his best to speak some reassurance into Scott.

“It’s okay, Scott, I would rather you not die.” That was true. “I wanted to do it.” Scott wouldn’t know how much Stiles meant it.  
\--  
The third time Stiles was in the woods, with no excuse. There was no need for self-defense, no one needing to be protected. It was just a man setting up traps. Stiles had been ejected from the pack-meeting that day, mainly because it didn’t concern him. He hated when Derek and Scott did that, because even if he didn’t need to be there it didn’t mean he needed to go.

He was out at night, like a fucking idiot. Just like Stiles. And Stiles couldn’t express his feelings, couldn’t postulate the words. The surge of need moved him. His brain was music and color, with drums and purples pushing him forward. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do.

About a tree or two away, Stiles paused. He didn’t want the man to look at him, he didn’t want to see the light go out in his eyes. He wanted to see it pour out in blood.

Stiles chose a rock, in the end. He got a split lip, his first hit not hard enough. The second one crashed into the nose, pushing it up. The man slumped over Stiles, and Stiles just rolled. He didn’t push off or struggle off. He raised the rock again, wanting to rid the man of his face. Who needed an identity anyway? Who wanted to be known in death anyway?

Who cared about this man anyway? Who would let him out of the house at night for a sport like this? He wanted to find prey, not become prey. He was craving the thrill, though it probably didn’t fill him like it did Stiles. Stiles felt the cheekbone give, smash in and sink his face. There wasn’t much skin left.

The hunt probably didn’t make the man’s entire body glow, like he could do anything. It made Stiles feel invincible, it made Stiles feel powerful. It wasn’t the first time, but those times he had no control. The power was chaos. This, this was order. There was nothing that could touch him, as long as he held a hand in death. Life was sick. Life was sick. Life was sick.

And Stiles was loving it.  
\--  
There was one riddle Stiles would never tell anyone that the nogitsune left with him. It was as Stiles clawed his way out of the throat of his old self that it grabbed a hold of him. He didn’t think about it, except during the nights that he was washing blood off his arms, or renting out hotel rooms in the daytime because he was too far from home to return.

He quickly learned not to kill in Beacon Hills.

His nineteenth birthday was fast approaching, and the idea of him going to college loomed over him. He didn’t know why he chose online as his first semester course load, but he lied and said it was so he could travel some. He didn’t leave much, or for very long. But it was a good lie nonetheless, so when he did leave his dad wasn’t suspicious.

He hadn’t seen much of Peter since Theo. It seemed like he just disappeared off the face of the earth for a bit, which Stiles was content to allow. Peter was too close to home, too right about how only blood seemed to cause Stiles to feel the way he needed to feel again.

It was one such night, when he was all the way over in New Mexico, that Stiles realized how dependent he had become. How much the hunt thrilled him, kept him alive.

She was a beautiful woman at one point, probably. But now all she was was a strung-out hippie, cheekbones high and shirt low. She would do anything for a little money to satiate her fix. And Stiles couldn’t hate her, because he would do anything also.

He was about to kill a woman to satiate his.

He never quite outgrew the stage of letting his rage, his emotions, play out his killing. He never stopped craving to tear them down, smash them so far in on themselves that they weren’t recognizable to anyone anymore. He wanted to leave with so much blood on him, so much life dripping at his skin, that his was once again calmed.

He wanted to kill for life’s sake. He wanted to end it for everyone. It was like giving into his inhibitions, like drinking on the sweetest wine. What was the point of life anyone? People exposed themselves in such stupid ways. And, as much as Stiles tried to be discrete, he guessed back then he had been pretty exposed as well. It shouldn't have come as a surprise when he was found.

Peter was waiting at the hotel for him and Stiles, Stiles no longer had the heart to put up a disguise. What was the point? There was no longer a stranger reflected onto Peter for Stiles, but someone akin to a lover.

Life was sick. So was Stiles.

 _I am what you’ll become._ Stiles let Peter crowd into his space, run his hands on against his skin soaked in tacky blood, a smile gently folding itself on his lips. It felt less like a submission and more like the last wall breaking down. It made Stiles feel like the hunter and hunted at once, his blood heating like it did when Peter would throw glances his way.

_Dust._


End file.
